New Player
by TheDarkestShinobi
Summary: Companion piece to A good old fashioned story. This is the 30 murders. Johnlock. minor Johniarty maybe. "Moriarty played a game last year, using people as bait to get us to solve murders." "Yeah, so?" Lestrade uses his hands to pull back his coat as they settled on his hips. Sherlock looks away. "It's John's turn." The game is on! Bamf!John
1. Prologue

**TheDarkestShinobi: **IM WARNING YOU NOW! Every single chapter in this will be a different length, but each chapter (excluding the first two) will have one of the complete cases. This chapter will be the longest, I'm sure.

This is a companion piece to my story A good old fashioned story (aGOFS) and starts on the 22nd chapter and will continue until one of the last ones. There is a lot of backstory (like I said chapter 22) that you'd be missing starting this without the other one, but I've thrown some of it together in this chapter and the next so you don't have to read the other if you don't want to. If you have, start on chapter 3.

This is Johnlock.

**Start**

"You should pack your things and move out." Sherlock said later that night, as John was getting ready to go for a walk. There was disbelief on his face.

"Excuse me?"

"Move out." And Sherlock's deep voice had no hint of emotion. "It seems we can no longer live together." Shoulders slumped, shaking of the head.

"And why is that?"

"You've an emotional attachment to me."

"Of course I do, we're friends." And his eyes checked the floor. Oh John, you should know better than to give yourself away like that.

"No. Don't take me for a fool, you think I haven't noticed? You walk closer to me now; you're trying harder to be useful. So much that you're becoming less useful. Your pulse is elevated around me, and your pupils dilate. Even now, the way you looked to the floor. And you've bumped into me five times in the last month. For a civilian, maybe that's normal, but you've had military trailing. It's obvious John." And his head tilted away in disgust and anger. "So, goodbye." John's eyes are wide, and he doesn't respond at first, meaning it is all true. It's silent for a second more.

"I'll get my stuff later." He finally says. He pauses before looking away, and again after getting his coat. He holds the doorknob too long as he opens it and holds the door open to long. He fixes his cuffs. His hands clench.

_He wants me to stop him. I won't. He's gotten far too close, he wants too much. He will become a hindrance. Not only his feelings for me, but because it would not be hard to form reciprocal feelings. I could love him, easily. A weakness. There was only one solution._

"Get out."

The door slams.

…

John's hands shake as he pulls his key from his pocket. He hasn't been out of it enough to know when someone else has been in his flat, so he's cautious as he walks up the stairs. He shouldn't have left his gun in his room. He takes the path that doesn't creak and isn't entirely surprised to see his door ajar.

There are two men inside and they are carrying weapons they think are hidden. Both stand tall and strong, and that's what lets John know this isn't a burglary. He stands in his doorway to watch them, but they aren't doing much.

"Why are you here?" He takes two determined steps forward and only stops when they raise their arms to their temple in a sweeping motion. John did the same, three seconds later, they lowered their hands.

"Air Force and Navy then, why are you here?"

"Because I asked them to be." He turns to see Mycroft leaning against his wall. "Tea?" John took a cup and sat at his table with the other three as if this were a regular occurrence.

"Sherlock seems to be doing okay." John hummed a response and looked the two others up and down before turning to Mycroft. He hates that his hands are still shaking. Mycroft noticed. "Missing the battlefield?" He asks knowingly. John has had enough.

"Not to be rude, but you didn't come here to discuss your brother, if I may, why are you here?"

"For the third time now," Mycroft looks amused.

"Maybe this time I'll get an answer." His voice is sharp and filled with tension. Things ended badly with Sherlock. Mycroft looks down before nodding and the officer from the Air force speaks first.

"We need you back, Captain." And the shaking stops. John smiles and sets his tea down.

"What do I do?"

…

"You take your medicine Dr. Watson, all of it."

…

"It's a shame you have had a domestic. I really liked the boy."

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson" She frowned.

"Well, alright then, I left some food and tea on the table for you." Sherlock waited until she was gone to lift his gun and aim it. He fired. Hit the eye on his new smiley face drawn against the wall. _Bang. Bang._ It wasn't enough, sending John away. No. _Bang. _ It hadn't been soon enough. Yes, that's it. Regardless, the emotional attachment he had been wishing to avoid had been there. It had taken his absence to realize it.

He needed to speak to John. Yes, get him back. _Bang. _Was that a good idea? His cases were more productive with the good doctor, more fun too.

_Come back._

He screamed, cursing Sherlock's name as he smashed a table into the wall. He looked for something else and slammed the chair to the ground. He yelled some more.

**Busy.**

_No you're not. _

No response

_I'll talk to you in the morning then._

**Fine**

He would pick today to text him. John typed a quick reply as he opened the bottle.

_Goodnight_

**Goodbye**

John dropped his phone.

At first Sherlock thinks nothing off it. At Mrs. Hudson's insistence he finally goes to sleep for a few hours. Suddenly, he sits up in bed still wrapped like a mummy and tilts his head. He pulls the covers away and grabs his phone. "Goodbye"? Sherlock read aloud, his mind starting to kick into overdrive. Solider. PTSD. Forms too much of an attachment to someone, kicked out. His eyes opened wide. "No."

He's running for a cab before he can register leaving the apartment and he rattles off the address of the last apartment John looked at, presumably the one he lives at. It takes too long to get there and for once, he would be unhappy to see Lestrade and yellow tape and a body.

Everyone's eyes avoid him, but they try harder to keep him back. Sally Donavan is not at the line; instead she's curled into Anderson. His wife is away again and he's not caring about public displays. Someone they knew, he feels his hand shake; someone they all knew. He knows it already; John was stronger than this, certainly. He pulls the tape up and an officer stops him

"You weren't invited this time." He turns to look at him. It's late, but his hair is still perfectly gelled, wedding ring lower than usual, he put it on angrily. His hands are tucked in neatly, trying to look his best. Also his shoulders are tense, absence of a usually present relief. Wife. Leaving

"Worry less about me and more about your wife." The officer sputtered. He thinks it's just a normal fight. "She's getting ready to leave you." He puts his hands in his eyes and Sherlock stalks forward. John would say something about brilliance right now, or subtlety, probably '_not good'_. He misses it.

"It was an overdose." Lestrade said as Sherlock ran up the stairs.

"Overdose," His tone gives away his disbelief. "Show me." His voice echoes in the empty flat and he can hear Sally making her way up the steps. Lestrade points to the other room and Sherlock wastes no time.

His body stills. His mind stops before jump starting. His mobile is a few feet away, cracked, it fell out of his hands at some point; likely the last point. He pulled his coat behind him and took a step forward. His torso is lifted against the bed, foam in the corner of his mouth, legs sprawled. More weight was supported on his left, so his psychosomatic limp was back. Yes, his cane was also on the ground.

"Look at him, Freak doesn't even have a heart."

"Donavan." Lestrade scolds.

Sherlock has a 'heart', in the way she is referring to it; it's very heavily protected and currently only inhabiting two people. One of which is lying at his feet. The clothes were normal for John, but their state was not. He hadn't shaved in a week; his hair was way too long.

"This looks like him." No it doesn't. John's cheeks were hollow, his cheekbones prominent, blood stained eyes. Eyes open, John would never face death any other way. He took a step back. It all made sense, as straightforward a death as anyone could have. John disserved better.

"I'll need blood work, dental records, the like." He turns to them, a slight smile on his face. "This is a fake."

"Enough! Freak!" It's Sally who shouts and Sherlock tilts his head in her direction. "It's John."

John, who Sherlock drove insane. John, who was showing signs of recovery before getting caught in Sherlock's whirlwind. _One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one to have put it there._ How she wished she was wrong. Yet here he was, staring at John like he was any other nameless corpse.

They both looked desperate to believe him, but their little minds only knew that all the little things matched the textbook case. Sherlock suddenly kneeled and raised John's shirt to reveal every single scar he could ever remember seeing on the solider. Ho noticed his hand shaking and watched it; he had shaken like that before, Carl Powers, the swimming pool, when John had been wrapped in explosives.

"A good fake."

"Oh my God, you sick-"

"Donavan, go to the car." And she leaves.

"How do you know Sherlock, we want this to be a fake just as much as you do, but _how_ do you know?"

This time, there was not missing suitcase or wedding ring, no hallucinogen or tattoo. Sherlock didn't know how he knew. Lestrade saw that as Sherlock did and sighed. For once, Sherlock was wrong. His boys came in to clean the place and Sherlock stood to the side.

There was nothing physically wrong, just that John would never commit suicide, and he _knew_ that. It was a perfect setup.

…

"John, John, **John, JOHN!**" Sherlock gradually rose to a yell as he slammed the test results onto the table one by one. "Oh, this is very good!" Sherlock jumped onto a chair, legs settling under him. He placed his hands together as he rested his chin on it. It all pointed nowhere, so it had to be Moriarty. That much was obvious, the how was not. He closed his eyes, think, how could this be done?

"Denial-I can't believe it. Freak's in denial." Donavan shook her head next to Lestrade, who opted to look at her instead of the man putting his dirty shoes in his chair. He sighs and opens the manila envelope in front of Sherlock.

"We've got a murder we want you to take a look at." Sherlock opened his eyes.

"What?"

"A woman with a hole drilled in her foot, matches a case from a town over, from a year ago. He drains the victims' blood and collects it. No blood found in the crime scene. Both women are in white gowns, almost like wedding dresses. Their bodies are strung up by their hands." His eyes skimmed the file and then the pictures although John never left his thoughts.

Donavan watched him work and hoped this could take his mind off of John. Then she shook her head, blinking more than she should've and walked out.

…

John wasn't trained so much as re-familiarized with the body. It hadn't been that long, John thought as he went through the steps. It wasn't like this though, in the field, wasn't this clean, this quiet. The real test wasn't in here, but in the field as the man you're trying to help is screaming and jerking, bullets flying in the background and blood, way too much blood everywhere.

It was enough for a lifetime, he told Sherlock once, yet he wanted more.

They wouldn't send him abroad again, and he had a feeling that Mycroft was involved with that, he'd be more likely to die overseas. He held the handgun up and lined his hands with the target. He spread his feet, no resistance from either leg.

Sherlock had been in another building that time, and with a handgun like this it would have been considered a crack shot. John pulled the trigger. _Bang._ He knew he wouldn't miss though, his hand didn't shake; it never shook with a gun. _Bang_. Sherlock had known it was him right away, despite him trying to hide it. _Bang._ It wasn't much of a surprise. _Bang, Bang. Bang. _ He dropped quickly, on one knee now. _Bang. Bang. _Sherlock did get thrills from risking his life. John did too he supposed. _Bang._

There was one more target. His eyes searched the field. He stood spinning to the left a bit and locked on to the target.

_Bang._

"Well done Doctor, are you sure you were only used in the medical capacity?"

"I've had bad days." He let one side of his mouth raise. "Too many bad days. Yes, I was used in a medical capacity, but I'm there to protect the others, this is part of that."

"You pass. Surprise" His tone indicated it really wasn't "Follow me,"

…

"You men have been selected to locate this group of insurgents." John crossed his arms as he watched some faces come up onto the screen in front of them. He'd been good with details and tries to remember as much of their faces as possible. The men next to him were doing the same and the room was quiet with the exception of the shuffling of papers for a few minutes.

"This is the man in charge of this operation, Captain Jesse Miller." The man stood up with a brief nod and a smile before sitting back down.

"Your main point of communications here, Martha Smith," She waved

"and your Doctor, John Watson." John was standing in the back, so no one noticed him right away.

"Right then," the eyes located him and he smirked "try to make my job easy."

"I'll leave you all to get better acquainted, tomorrow, your assignment begins." John was suspicious of his 'death' if they weren't going to change his name, but the opportunity to seek out Mycroft had past, and he had a group of men to befriend.

No drinking the night before they started, but military gents always found ways to have a good time. It only took the night for them to grow close.

…

"Are you going to the funeral?" Sherlock looked up from the floor and tilted his head. Mrs. Hudson took another step into the apartment; she was in a black dress and hat with t small veil covering her face. "John,"

"He's not dead." Sherlock's face turned into one of confusion "so why would I attend his funeral?"

"Oh, Sherlock, I know what it is like-"

"He's not dead." Sherlock said firmly. "Go if you wish but I need to focus if I'm to find the killer before his fourth victim. Good bye."

"but-" she stars softly

"**Goodbye,**" his voice is harsh before he levels it off "Mrs. Hudson."

He shuts the world out then with a small breath. He needed to visit his mind palace.

…

"Teams of four, at entry points here, here, here" Jesse pointed to different parts of the map with his pointer, "and here." John nodded as he took out his weapon and cocked it, the others doing the same. He studied the map as Jesse split the teams up and Martha's voice sparked in his ears. Jason, self-appointed leader of their group patted him on the shoulder and he nodded. He took up the rear and adjusted his med pack.

Quick and easy they said, but the fact that there was a group of 16 didn't give John hope. He raised his gun,

_You have intermittent tremor in your left hand_

Not now it didn't.

_You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson, you miss it_

"Now," The static in his ears cleared up to say and he ran forward with the rest of them.

…

Sherlock thinks to the Bride Collector's victims.

Veils, purity. He shook those thoughts away. One of the women had been married. Married, yes, veils, all the woman wore the same veils.

He never touched the girls, so he was saving them. Saving them for Christ, maybe, they were positioned the same way he was claimed to be. No, no, not Christ. God. Yes, this man thought he was a prophet, messenger, deliverer.

Sherlock's face turned slightly as he raised his hands further. There was no pattern to the locations that would imply a fifth, think, think! Fifth floor, second floor-2 on the second floor, eighth floor, white walls, tiled walls, brick walls. The women had makeup, and were shaved, the perfect idea. He did love them. These women were picked. Meticulously picked out the women beforehand, the place and time had to be planned.

Their heads were tilted to the side-John's head was against the couch, foam at the corner of his mouth and a bit of vomit on his shirt.

Toilet flushed, still traces of vomit on the side where his hands were. Sherlock shook his head. Focus. The chair had been thrown into the wall with enough force to break it. The table had been smashed with force. John could do it; even years out of service that training left him strong enough to put a hole in the wall. Sherlock's head jerked violently to the left

The scars had been exact, Sherlock remembered them clearly. That was way too much detail for a fake. His eyebrows twitched, hands jerking and head moving to the right.

It was real. He kept shaking his head. Going through the evidence

Teeth-real-no

Scars-true

Records-his-but

Blood –real

"No." He spoke as his eyes opened. He wouldn't believe himself. He couldn't.

…

"You saved my life." Alec started the conversation shortly after John sat down. His was in his more formal uniform, the medal from his service in Afghanistan standing out against the gray. His haircut yesterday just added to the look.

"Well," John let out a smile "I'm a doctor, hardly be useful if I couldn't." He laughed then and the other joined him.

"You had no weapon and killed those men in seconds." John's smile flattened as he readjusted himself on the chair. He gave a curt nod and smile that hid more of his lips than showed.

"Saw that then."

"Of course I saw that!" John didn't say anything to that and Alec let out a breath.

"They had lied to me; you're not a regular doctor."

"Uniform gave it away?" John gestured to it as Alec shook his head.

"No. You weren't afraid to die," He had whimpered and cried but John didn't even flinch "very skilled in hand to hand combat" deadly, what did it take; five seconds to dismantle them, "you were so calm when they held that gun to your head." There was another pause. "Afghanistan or Iraq."

John froze before realizing the voice wasn't Sherlock's. "Afghanistan," he answered, "what gave that away?"

_You're tan but not tan above the wrist. You've been abroad but not sunbathing._

"It was a guess. Where else are we sending soldiers? What's with the look?" John looked down.

"Oh, uh, nothing; reminded me of an old friend." He shifted again and saw the apology in the others face.

"I'm sorry." It was an incorrect assumption, but John didn't correct him. Alec cleared his throat. "I wanted to thank you properly and in person."

"You're welcome."

"I'll always be a friend, John."

…

Sherlock pulled up his sleeve as he slapped on a nicotine patch. But it wasn't enough; this was a two patch problem. He paced. A three patch problem. He closed his eyes as his palace began to settle, he knocked ideas away before sighing. A four patch problem.

John knew he was leaving.

That much was obvious, from the speed of the text and the contents. _Goodbye._ It wasn't an accidental overdose. Couldn't be, John was also in the medical profession, he would know what it was like, and even if he didn't he would know the symptoms to look out for. Obvious. It wouldn't be a purposeful overdose. John had eaten that night, based on the contents of his stomach. It was a cheap canned dinner as well. If he was planning it he would have eaten nothing to make it easier for his body to succumb or a lavish meal as his last. John only ate canned goods in an extreme rush.

It was an overdose medically, but John didn't have an overdose.

If someone wanted to kill John there were more efficient and for sure ways. Guns, knives, blunt objects. So this was done to send a message, but there was no message. He sorted through the drugs looking for anything, then to the date. His hands were blurs as they discarded idea after idea.

The only thing that was let was the image of the body they claimed to be John's, but it couldn't be John's because John wasn't dead. It was a body. It couldn't be John's body.

Yes. That's what John's message was for. Sherlock's eyes opened wide. John was telling him he was leaving and not by choice. Someone convinced him to leave, more likely forced, but who-

And once again all the answers pointed towards Moriarty. He had thought he was jumping to conclusion before but he was right. Sherlock smirked wickedly and closed his eyes again. It was time to find Moriarty.

…

"You've been given a medal." Mycroft announced as he walked into the room. John stood at his entrance but didn't offer a salute. He was in his formal uniform, having been summoned that morning, and gently smoothed down the sides. The officer next to Mycroft presented the box of black velvet that no doubt held the aforementioned.

The officer took quick steps towards him and John straightened further as his face set into the Captain. Mycroft took two steps forward and watched the two pivot in sync to face each other. The officer used one white gloved hand to open the box and despite temptation John kept looking straight ahead and not at it.

"No ceremony," Mycroft apologized. "You know why. You don't mind, do you?" He wasn't really asking so John didn't answer. He felt the medal being pinned on his uniform next to his previous one. As soon as it set the box was closed and presented to John. John ran his fingers over the case and nodded his thanks as the officer before him saluted. John brought his arm up.

"Thank you for your bravery and service." John lowered his arm and the other followed. They both shared a smile before the other did a 180 and walked out of the room.

"It would have been nice," John admitted after the other left. "The ceremony" he clarified at Mycroft's glance.

"Ah," but he said nothing else on the matter.

"So, how'd you give a medal to a dead man?" he resisted the urge to see it once again, there would be time for that later.

"Complicated." He said with a sigh as he turned his face away from John. "but it was equally insisted that you receive one" obviously from Alec "and that you remain a secret." John scrunched his eyebrows as his head drew back, who wants his identity a secret?

"Can" he closed his eyes as he swallowed "I ever go back?"

Mycroft paused and John could tell that he didn't know. Mycroft wasn't in control of it. The British government without control?

"I suppose so." John decided to let it go. He was the one who agreed to die. Nasty business that was, the shouting and throwing; it felt great though. The puking didn't, but he knew Mycroft, _or someone_, left a lot of money for the landlady so he didn't feel too bad about it.

The body they left was so similar to his own that he felt the need to check his own pulse and looked in a mirror. She had been very thorough; maybe too thorough for the British government.

…

He jumped off the dumpster with his jacket fluttering. He shook his head and dug into his pockets to dig out a piece of paper and a pen. Sherlock started to walk away with long strides as he crossed off another location on the sheet of paper with his pen. The wind made his hair fly about and made the paper difficult to hold but he crossed it off holding it against his black glove. There were four other places scribbled out messily above the one his pen hovered over.

There were two more possible places Moriarty could be, they stood out in black pen on the bottom of the paper. He pocketed the paper as he glanced around the yard before pulling his coat higher and the cuffs to cover his neck.

John thought it made him look cool and mysterious.

John…

"I'll find you." He promised as he walked away.

…

The bar was a series of patterns now. Every man in his group, with the exception of Dessler who was no longer with them, had insisted on buying him a drink. It was rude to say no and therefore John had to hold onto the bar for good measure. He was laughing, he was laughing so hard and he can't even remember what the joke was, probably him. The chips and burger in his stomach did nothing to quell the fact that he wanted food. Jesse turned him around on the stool before he could order another meal.

"Alec said you karate chopped 'em real good." Peter said and though John didn't respond a few of the other boys started doing their own impressions.

"Congrats," Jason said again slapping a hand on the other's shoulders. "You are the man."

"Then sing for the man!" John sat up and nodded at that. He started gesturing towards Jason.

"Rap! Do it!" He laughed harder and clapped twice before giving the guy a thumbs up.

"You are gone Watson," Rob said with a roaring laugh.

"Come on" John seemed to whine "do the freestyle!"

"Okay, okay, okay." Jason stood straight up and held his hands outward. He smiled and shook his head, eyes closed "I can totally freestyle, right now, but someone has to give me a beat." John giggles looking down while the others look around. John curls his fingers and brings a hand to his mouth before shaking his head from side to side. The men freeze at the beat boxing before cheering.

"JOHNNY BOY!"

"WATSON!"

"Dude got skills!"

Jason holds up a hand to get them to shut up. John lifted his head with an exaggerated shake as a challenge and Jason laughed before using his hands to tell John to keep going.

"_Imma J to the A S"_ he started as he swayed.

_I'm always on_

_And the sound's from my main man_

_I call 'im John"_

And they rapped and partied, none of them knowing this would be their last night with the good doctor.

…

Sherlock sighed as he heard his phone vibrating from the other side of the room. He lolled his head over to stare in its directions.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called out before letting out another sigh. "Mrs. Hudson." He groaned and then sighed. "Useless." He rose to his feet and let his robe fall open as he took the few steps to where it was. He picked it up, pressing the button on the side and it lit up.

_Checked the location you gave me, Moriarty is not there-M_

He dropped the phone onto his bed as he rolled his shoulders and then his head. Then he laughed; a deep dark chuckle that didn't stop until he needed to breathe.

…

Two sets footsteps echoed through the hall. One was the sound of work shoes, a click-click; the other belongs to a set of heavy combat boots in light feet, quick thuds. The sound was broken by another set of protests from the shorter.

"I need you to be quiet and listen." Mycroft cut the other off as he stopped seemingly randomly in the hall.

"You pulled me out," John looked away before shaking his head and locking eyes with the other. "They could need me." John was adamant but stopped at the others expression. "Mycroft?" Mycroft sighs grips his umbrella tighter. John would never know why the man carried it indoors.

"John," The other started in a pleading voice, "please," another pause "for England." John narrows his eyes and Mycroft looks down before up. "It's Moriarty, he's threatening to put some kind of poison in our systems if you don't meet him now." Mycroft sees John's eyes soften in understanding and turns to push open the doors they stopped in front of. Mycroft pushes open the door without any other warning and John looks to see Moriarty sitting against the desk with a smile.

"Hello Captain!" John's face sets into stone and he hears the door close behind him. "Had I known you looked this good in a uniform I would have left you my number." John didn't respond and Moriarty's eyes took him in head to toe. "Oh, and another medal I see, must have had to do with Mr. Green." John's fists are clenched and he has half a mind to reach for his gun and end the git now. Moriarty still spoke in a joking manner, as if they were friends. "Well, to business then."

"What is it?" Moriarty didn't respond right away, "You're threatening England." John tilted his head but other than that stayed the perfect soldier, Moriarty loved that.

"Oh, right, well, I could have phoned you, but you'd be less likely to agree." Still chatting as if they were friends and there weren't lives in the balance.

"How did you know I was alive?" He just smiles and that's the only thing John gets as an answer. Moriarty holds up a clear circular object in his left hand between his pointer and middle finger.

"So I'm going to give you this earpiece and _you're_ going to do everything I say." And in John's hands it looked like an ordinary earpiece. He feels anger and barely suppressed the urge to punch the other.

"What? So I'm your new assassin now?" Moriarty tilts his head in thought.

"No," he sounds like he was debating it but John knew better. "no, killing people isn't as fun as what i'm about to do to him." _Him,_ of course it always came back to him.

"Sherlock." Moriarty's face dropped into one of annoyance at the name.

"Sherlock knows you're not dead. He can't find any mistakes-because I haven't made any-but he's sure you're alive." John didn't let it show but he was kind of happy. But wait…

"So you-" It made sense; the precision, and why he had to die. Who else would want Sherlock to think he was dead?

"Of course, the whole thing has been my doing." He held his hands outwards.

"Why?" John clutched the earpiece in his hand as he held his to his side.

"Because every good story needs a betrayal."

"Betrayal?" he echoed in question. His stomach may have flipped and he may have swallowed a ball of ice all at once.

"Yes, a betrayal. He is on his way to where he thinks I am, and I'll be there shortly. So will you." John tilted his heard to the side and let the question hang in the air again.

"He's going to try and kill me, shoot me for your honor or something or other." And Moriarty pulled his lips apart and down, more like a grimace than a smile.

"And why shouldn't I let him?" John's voice held a dangerous edge Moriarty made a note to explore.

"Oh." Moriarty let out a breath. "BORING!" He exclaimed like a child before his face changed into one of derision. "It must be dull in those little minds of yours." He spread his arms out and spun in a slow circle "I have orchestrated this, obviously with a threat so big and feasible that the British government is down on its knees." His face held no joy or amusement anymore; he was a criminal mastermind at work. "They have complied, so now," he lifted his pointer "all this, Dr. Watson," and pointed to John with a malicious smile "is now on your hands." It took a few seconds before John ceded by taking the earpiece and placing it in his ear. Moriarty let a side of his mouth quirk up.

"I see it's not all wasted."

"What would you have me do?" He was scared Moriarty noticed.

"Protect me from Sherlock, shooting him if it comes down to it." John shook his head.

"You have men."

"As I was saying, RUDE! Convince him you've betrayed him. Convince him he's lost you, and not to death," he walked closer with the smile of a madman and shook his head. "Oh no, to something worse, to me." John swallowed and his posture stiffened. They were hairs apart and Moriarty entertained the thought of grabbing the man's collar. It was a shame for the doctor; he could be so much more intimidating if he was taller.

"And If I don't?" He would, the solider would do anything for England.

"I'll leave that to your imagination."

…

"What have you done to him!?" Sherlock yells as he approaches Moriarty, who is standing on the edge of the roof. Moriarty turns and Sherlock had a gun trained on Moriarty's face, but Moriarty simply steps down with a small smile and walks a little closer to the enraged man leisurely, with his hands clasped behind his back.

John had been given a hand gun and a close range automatic; it was to make sure he would have to be close to the two. The earpiece was emitting static now but instructions could come through at any second and he'd have to follow them. He stands too still for a man, his mind in overdrive. He was feeling for wind, but there was nothing to affect a shot this close, there usually wasn't. Where could he shoot to cause the least damage? Could he even shoot Sherlock?

A red dot appears on the back of Sherlock's head for an instant, but John watched it with dismay. It was a clear message from Moriarty; another threat. Laser sight wasn't accurate, and a trained sniper would never need one. He learned that in Afghanistan, having the pleasure of knowing an American, Chris Kyle, who was very proficient. It drew attention to the people next to the target and gave away the snipers location to anyone in the vicinity. Therefore it had one purpose and one purpose only.

A threat.

"He has no intention to shoot, stand down." His earpiece informed him. He was undetectable in these shadows so he stayed and watched, his finger hovering over the trigger he prayed he didn't have to use.

"Oh, hello Sherlock." Moriarty sends Sherlock a smile and receives a glare in return.

"Enough, Moriarty, What have you done?" Moriarty's hands find his pockets and pull them up as he shrugs looking left and right.

"Me? To John?" He looks taken aback "Nothing." He lets his shoulders fall and Sherlock tilts his head as a frown settles on his face.

"You're lying to me." John has missed that voice.

"Am I? What have I done to him, you ask. You are the one who drove him away." The lines in Sherlock's face became valleys as he sneered. "Overdose, was it? Hard to imagine."

"We both know he is not dead, and if he is you killed him. Completely textbook, clever, but it wasn't clever to target my best friend."

"Intent rising, John." It was, but John wanted to see more

"No danger yet," he lied "give it a moment more." And it unnerved him to no end to know he was commanding Moriarty's men. Or rather Jim, being that that was what he was instructed to address him by.

"I'm not playing games, Moriarty."

"And yet you played with matches with your pet John." Moriarty looked to the side, 'I told you so' written on his face.

"He is **not** a pet." John could tell that tone, Sherlock was about to get violent, and he had been told if a single Westwood thread was out of place the bets were off.

"Sherlock." He tried to keep his voice even and threatening and was satisfied. Sherlock let out a small huff of air of relief. There it was, the voice he had been aching to hear, only much more serious, dark, deadly. "Put down your weapon." And traitorous.

"No." It was disbelief, not disobedience that coated his word. His hand shook and his shoulders slumped.

"Oh, Sherlock," Moriarty looked up and away and took his hands out of his pocket "You're right, John is alive and well. See for yourself."

"Convince him, John." The earpiece needlessly instructed.

Sherlock turned to see him. Hard eyes, strong but not stiff posture, gun against his shoulder with ease, same military haircut. He's using a blade razor now, hasn't had a nightmare in weeks. Wear on the shoes suggested lots of running in formation. Shoelace stained with blood. No crease over eyes, he had been having a lot of fun within the last three days. Sherlock noted it was rather difficult to swallow the sudden build-up of saliva in his mouth.

"Another trick?" And there was something in his voice John couldn't identify. Defeat? "Mind games?"

"No trick here, Sherlock." John answered for Moriarty-Jim-for Jim. "Now, drop the gun," Sherlock paused. "Don't make me shoot you." _Please don't make me shoot you._

There was no admiration, no attraction. No tremor in voice, no misdirection of his gun. His eyes never shifted, his stance indicates preparation for recoil. John will shoot. With that realization Sherlock released his hold on his weapon; it clattered to the ground and John lowered his weapon slightly. Sherlock's shoulder fell. John was still ready to raise the weapon against him.

"Why?" Desperation seeped into Sherlock's voice and John doubted he cared at that moment.

"Why?" John echoed in disbelief and could see Moriarty's smile split his face open. "All your deductive skills and you need me to tell you?" He didn't. Sherlock answered, as always, and hated himself for it.

"You felt unappreciated. It's always me they see, news, girls," he tilted his head, "boys, given rather recent revelations. I call you stupid-"

"He is pretty stupid" Moriarty chimed in. Really!? John raised his gun with anger in his eyes and they both stilled. Jim's smiled returned.

"And then that last night, I-" He stopped himself. He let him go because he meant too much. He _made_ him go.

"Yes." John's voice was ice. It hurt him to see Sherlock like this, shock, disbelief and no answers. John was acting, a bit. Sherlock would be able to read if he wasn't really angry so he had to be. He was.

"Your psychologist said you were broken." She had said it was all his fault.

"I did go to her," John paused and lowered the gun "first." Moriarty planned all of this, didn't he? He was a fly caught in Moriarty's web, squirming just how the other wanted. "Then Jim" Sherlock's eyes flew wide "came to get me."

"No." he refused to believe it. "NO. **NO!**" Sherlock turned and grabbed Moriarty's collar-Jim's collar.

"Take him down now!" The earpiece flared to life but John was already moving.

"Hypnotism? Cloning? Did you threaten all of England? You **will** tell-"

John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and spun him. John placed a perfect punch to the other's face. It hurt much more than last time, John was definitely in training, killing again. Also, the affection was gone. Sherlock looked up with rapidly fading vision to see John fretting over Moriarty with more concern than an employee would have for a boss and Moriarty pulling John in for a kiss.

He was grateful for the darkness.

"What was that?!" John exclaimed as soon as he knew Sherlock was unconscious. He flexed his fingers and wiped his lips, but the other was unharmed and England would be safe for now, even if Sherlock would hate him forever.

"That, my dear Watson, was the spark." John was tight lipped and looked down to Sherlock with a sigh and suddenly Moriarty had a completely different idea on how to fuel the fire he started.

"Do you still have a phone?" John reached into his pocket and held it up.

_Pick up your brother – M_

John moved to take it back but Jim slipped it into his pocket as he turned and walked towards the door to go back down.

"Come on, John, unless you plan to jump."

…

"Sherlock, Sherlock?" He opened his eyes groggily to see a woman with long blonde hair fretting over him. He held out a hand to get her to back up and he attempted to stand. He almost returned to the roof; the hands that held him up were familiar and he turned his throbbing head to see his brother. Mycroft? Why was he being so… familial? Guilt, guilt for-his thoughts stopped at the pain.

"Moriarty told me you were here." He said before starting to say something, deciding against it and leaving. Anthea-or rather Christie, her real name was obvious from the way her hair fell, smiled at him. He watched Mycroft leaving, something was off; he tried to think about it but found his thoughts to be cloudy.

"How are you?"

How was he? He was fine now, well, he may be mildly concussed and his eyes would blacken within a day. His teeth were thankfully all there and not bleeding. His cheek would hurt for the next week at least.

"I'm fine."

But he wasn't. Oh he wasn't fine at all.

_Jim came to get me._

He felt sick in a way he hadn't in years. His hands felt cold and his insides burned; so did his eyes. He started to quicken his shallow breaths, trying to get more air into his lungs. He heard his name being called but her voice wasn't hers, it was John's. John's voice had been oh so cold. He hated him. John _hated_ him. How could he ever be fine?

_No trick here Sherlock._

Oh, but there had to be. There had to be something. He raised his hands to grab onto the back of his head as he curled into himself. He rocked forward and heard retreating footsteps. He wouldn't cry now, no, not now. He squeezed tighter and ignored the shooting pain in his head. He closed his eyes so hard it hurt. Too much. This is why he wanted John out; because he knew he made him vulnerable. He let out a ragged breath.

Ignore the pain. He had to ignore the pain. Just transport. Ignore that John caused the pain. John would never hurt him. John was always there, always supportive. His brain wouldn't let him shut it out. He couldn't delete. No, no, that wasn't John. John couldn't hurt him, right?

Everything hurt. Sherlock let out another breath that didn't sound like a sob, it _didn't, _and tried not to focus on the fact that everything burned.

…

Moriarty looked up from the newspaper he was reading as John bursts through the doors. He had some of the other men show him to where he'd be sleeping and around the general premises. He hadn't expected to be found but he hadn't ruled it out. He was showing potential.

John was in his military uniform, beige boots laced all the way up and desert camouflage pants. He also wore a beige shirt Jim was sure he filled out more years ago. So John didn't wear any other clothes Jim provided. He knew that would happen, which is why his men picked up the backpack that had the rest of John's current life in it. John would get used to it eventually, he would get used to a lot of things in the next month.

John's face was in anger, and Moriarty knew it would be. John could be the perfect soldier when lives were at sake but the second it was over John would relive it. John's been reliving the moments from the roof for the past two hours. Moriarty folded the paper as he watched John shaking with anger. He smiled and tilted his head.

"When?" Moriarty takes delight in the tone he's using, looks like he is going to bring out the soldier much earlier than planned, but that rather was the point of the last month "does it end?" It's a demand and almost a growl and Moriarty knows he would be an excellent leader for his men in due time.

Moriarty stood, exerting his height dominance, yet placed his hands behind his back as if he was open and listening. He took two steps forward, knowing how his steps echoed in this room.

"There is a terrorist group planning to bomb a plane sometime in June, if my demand was heeded, it stops then."

"A plane." John repeats as his fists clench and unclench. He's a ball of untamed rage Moriarty wants to pop.

"Among other things." He waved his hand about before placing it behind his back again. "but that was the most fun." He puts emphasis on the fun and notes that John's hands don't unclench. He's so close to being punched but John would never, not with other people's lives in the balance.

"A terrorist group," John's head jerked back in realization "the group I've been hunting?"

"Hunting!" using hunting as a term for people was an excellent thing. He shook his head with a smile, "I do like this side of you; want to hunt people for me?" John's eyes narrowed, which is exactly what was expected, _this_ time. "Yes, my group of course. So I know what it would take to stop them."

"You're insane." The anger is funneling into resignation. Moriarty pouted. He is finally able to realize the situation. Shame. No breaking Watson today.

"You've used such nicer words with Sherlock." He remarks and sees the way John's eyes shift.

"So I have" John shifted, nervousness betraying him. "What demands did you make?"

"You."

"I'm sorry, me?"

"Yes, your fake death, you back in the military, domestic, for a month, then my guard for another." Now John had the look of a puppet who thought he had a say. "That was my only demand." John's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. That was Mycroft.

"Oh, cat's out of the bag isn't it." He looked like he was caught in a lie but it was all an act, he never revealed more than he wanted to. "Mycroft has been in on it from the start."

The air seemed to grow tense as Moriarty took a step closer to him. He brought his arms forward as he stalked. "I said I would burn the heart out of him." He tilts his head with a sinister expression as he used his hand to pull John forward by his chin. John wanted to hurt him so much, especially after today and he could. John could easily kill him in 10 (well maybe 11, depending on how creative the doctor was feeling at the moment) different ways before anyone would stop him. John wouldn't lift a finger. Moriarty reveled in his power over the other. John wouldn't do anything to him because of his web. It was exhilarating. John's face settled into neutral. He didn't even try to fight back. **GOOD**!

Pets can be trained. They can learn their place.

John will learn his place.

"And despite what he has tried to convince you of, you are the heart of him." No reaction. He squeezed the bones, and leaned a little closer to the doctor. "And I could have killed you, but that would have been easy" he pauses "and boring." He adds as an afterthought. John was on his tip toes now; fighting, successfully, to keep his breathing even. "Instead, I will make you _burn_ him." Done with his threats Jim shoved John as far as he could with the hand on his chin and John only took a step back before straightening. He was strong indeed. Ordinary, but strong. Such wasted potential.

Jim could teach him the way of the devils and lure him away from the angels. That would be the best way to light an eternal flame in Sherlock.

"Now," he let himself back away from his darkness and straightens out his suit. John is still watching; his perfectly stone face is up again. "I have no use for you unless Sherlock comes back around so you can keep up the military training," John doesn't nod but Moriarty expected that, he is listening and that's what matters. Moriarty's point was understood very well and he wouldn't be having any more outbursts from John Watson.

"You will also be treating my men as needed," he'd have John start with the healing before the killing. He would have to ease John in. "but you can't leave." The smile seemed friendly again and his tone lightened with ease to a teasing tone "I can't have him seeing you," he paused "unchaperoned."

…

_John is alive. Help me find him. SH_

Mycroft put the phone down before answering it. He was stuck in a position he wasn't sure how to get out of. His brother was asking for help. Help against Moriarty. He sent back "What? How?" and waited. This was going to blow up in his face soon, and he prayed to make it through.

…

"Sherlock Holmes!" The man shouts his name and Sherlock turns back to him with boredom. "I knew it was you! You're hurting God!" He looked to all of them then as if they would suddenly share his madness. He stood then and ran towards her, the gun not an inhibitor for him any longer. Another officer knocked him down and held the gun to his head. Sherlock scoffed.

"You, you, you're the one who found me." The girl's eyes jumped to him, taking it all in.

"Obvious." He countered. He just wanted to get home.

"These are his favorites, his brides; you're keeping them from him." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"How many were you going to kill?"

"_Deliver_" he stressed. "7" spot on then. He turned to leave again when Charles started laughing.

"He's keeping yours!"

"Mine?" Sherlock didn't turn but stood up straight.

"You're keeping God's favorites, so he's keeping yours." Lestrade started to curse.

"You're talking about John." Sherlock kept his voice even. "Moriarty has John." Oh that hurt to say. The fog of the world was getting thicker; it was getting harder to breathe.

"Moriarty is just a tool of God." The voice spoke from behind him. "He is going to fix John from what you've done to him."

Sherlock left then. He wouldn't let the other's words affect him.

_fix John from what you've done to him_

**Get Out.**

Maybe he had.

Suddenly the world was in a sharp focus. He looked around as he took a deep breath. Enough of this. He was going to find John and either John was going to stop this ridiculousness and come home, or-Sherlock let out a breath. There was no or. John was coming home.

…

Lestrade has another case for him, this one within walking distance from Baker street. From the text and picture Lestrade sent it looks like an eight, so he can spare some time for it. He has made little to no progress on John by himself and Lestrade's hands a metaphorically tied. Sherlock reviews the scene from the roof once more in his mind as he continued to walk

"Hi!" Sherlock doesn't pay attention to the owner of the voice as he walks past her. She is undeterred and starts following him down the sidewalk. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, right?" He glances at her from the corner of his eye before looking forward again.

"Busy." He bites out as he starts to cross the street; she runs a few paces to keep up with his long stride.

"Right," she lets out a laugh and he rolls his eyes. "Uh, my name's Susan."

"Yes. Susan Doyle,"

"Ah! You remember?" She seems pleased. He turns the corner.

"Haven't deleted you yet." He starts towards the yellow police tape and she grabs his arm. He turns towards her with a scathing look and she lets him go.

"I just wanted to thank you is all," it wasn't, he could tell from her lipstick and the wrinkle in her sleeve that she was nervous, well not the lipstick but the fact that it was on her teeth. That and her walk; she kept trying to match his steps and his pace alternatively. He is reminded of Molly, but this woman would have years before they could be considered equals. "and I was wondering if you would like to" but he's not listening, already ducking under the yellow tape and wondering if a row with Donavan was avoidable. Of course not.

"So that's how it goes, lose one and pick up another." She shakes her head. "I can't believe you." She turns her attention to Susan, "You with 'im?"

"Yes," she replies with haste as he lets out a resonating

"No," and continues into the building.

Sally watches him go up the stairs and turns to the woman still waiting.

"He'll be awhile." She admits and the other nods and makes no motion to leave. Sally looks way before pursing her lips and turning to face the other fully.

"Who are you?"

"Uh-Susan," she's nervous, but truthful, "Susan Doyle" she introduces as she extends a hand.

"Sargent Sally Donavan," she shakes the hand with her own, noting the weak handshake.

"What's your relation to Sherlock?" she continues as she crosses her hands and leans on her right leg. Susan pulls her lip with her teeth before answering.

"He saved my life, I was the-Have you heard of the bride collector?" Sally lets out a breath with a nod and Susan blinks, naked in front of him once again. His eyes raked across her body before the Detective Inspector handed her his coat. She hasn't been able to stop thinking about him. God sent him to her to save her from the devil. She smiled softly. "I was the one on the table when he barged in. He saved my life."

"He does that." She grudgingly admits as if she's forgotten. It's not why he does what he does, but he does do it. Susan knows this, he and John went around solving crimes and saving lives until they had a fallout; it was all over the papers, that and John's blog. The fallout ended with John death, an accidental overdose on medication.

"I know you think he saved your life, he's someone valiant or something. But stay away from Sherlock Holmes." She warns; her tone dropping. She had to get this one away. She blinks to see John.

"Why?" She asks, confused, who would ever want to stay away from him?

"He's a psychopath." She remembers the vomit, the body of a great man in pain. "He gets off on these crimes, any crime." Susan doesn't look deterred. "His best friend committed suicide because of him." Susan blinks twice before swallowing, not an accident then. "And Sherlock stood over the body to inspect it, said it was brilliant and didn't even go to the funeral."

Susan didn't look like she was leaving any time soon. She could understand pain from someone else's suicide. Her brother took his own life a while ago; she still wore the necklace he made her to remember him, not like she could forget.

"I'd say this wouldn't be enough for him, that one day we'd be standing around a body and Sherlock will be the one to have put it there but I've already stood at a dead body he's caused."

Susan looks away from Sally and remembers the way his coat flutters behind him, the look of rage in his eye as they spoke of Moriarty, she doesn't remember what they were talking about, the doctors say it's because of her shock, but she knows it was because of her.

"I don't care," she finally resolves, "I've seen him, the real him and he's not the monster you're making him out to be." There is adoration in her eyes, and Donavan narrows her own.

"Right." Sally slowly agrees as something clicking into place; she'd have to tell Lestrade to keep an eye on this one.

"Not even a 6" Sherlock mutters under his breath as he passes the two of them on his way out. Anderson comes out the door later shaking his head and pulling off his gloves while Lestrade makes a phone call and Sally watches Susan chase after Sherlock.

"Tell me about your friend." Susan asks as she catches up to Sherlock. He glances at her again and lets out a sigh, and she wonders briefly how no one can see what these cases do to him. She'd like to give him a massage, help ease his pain. There must be so much, especially if his best friend really committed suicide.

"Why would I do that?" He opens the door to Angelo's and walks in without holding the door open for her. She is still trailing after him.

"No reason." She answers with a shrug

"You already know. You read the papers, Donavan told you." His voice is low and controlled, but barely. "He died." He didn't die; he went to Moriarty, to _Jim. _She watches him, such anger and pain. She wants to caress his face but she doesn't know if he'd allow it. The conversation ends as Angelo approaches them. Sherlock looks up as Angelo walks over to them, he looks upset.

"It's been almost a week Sherlock; tell me you're eating, please." Sherlock doesn't answer, instead handing Angelo the menu. "The usual." Angelo nods, before looking over to the other, Sherlock can read the question in his mind but Angelo knows better than to ask about John, he learned that the first time Sherlock came in here without him.

"And you?"

"Can I have a minute?" she asks picking it up and glancing at Sherlock; has he not been eating?

"Shall I bring a candle? It's more romantic for your date."

"Oh, yes please" Susan gushes but Sherlock's face twitches as he remembers _'I'm not his date'_ and snaps.

"It's not a date." Susan looks crushed, Sherlock doesn't care. Angelo retreats.

"Quite rude, inviting yourself to lunch with a stranger." He stares out the window as he curses himself for not eating yesterday so he had to today. That was his goal, take care of himself the way John would. John would see that. When this mess was over, he'd appreciate it.

"What better way to get to know a stranger," her pupils are dilated, breathing rate increased. He'd bet her pulse also was. "After all, it's such as shame that we know nothing about each other." He let a side of his mouth quirk up. "You disagree?"

"I know you're pilot and a smoker although you've quit since moving to London. You moved here after you mother died and have started taking martial arts class, MMA to be specific."

"Wow," she breathed as he continued.

"I know your father beat your brothers and you wished he beat you, although you did get your fair share of abuse, with his sexual assaults, and that is the reason you broke off your engagement last year." She doesn't want to remember that, or be reminded of that, but she knows he's hurt and lashing out when you're hurt is normal.

"That was amazing." She says and he pauses for a second before looking away. Her poor baby, can no one else see he's hurting?

_Of course it was. It was extraordinary, quiet extraordinary. _

There's only one thing for it. She has to fix him; she has to replace John Watson.


	2. Free?

**TheDarkestShinobi: **Going to upload the first three chapters at once, but I have no promises for anything else, in fact, my 30 list, is back upstate in my apartment, so I can't even start this until I get back on the 25th. That being said, any and all suggestions for names, murders, clues and scenes are most welcome

**Start**

The sitting room is empty but for the two of them, John and David. The two sit in comfortable silence as David skims the paper and John makes more progress in the novel he started yesterday. John briefly glances at his watch; it's just shy of 1. David, across the room, runs a hand through his hair as he lets out a breath. The headline on the newspaper reads "Angel's murder case proves he is anything but!" John tongue comes out of his mouth to wet his lips as he turns the page. He hears footsteps approaching the door, but that's not unusual at this time, most people liked to go for a walk around midday.

John and David look up from their readings at the sound of the door opening. Jim's standing at the door in a full blue suit holding a thin yellow file folder in his hands. John lowers the book using his pointer as a short term bookmark and looks to the folder in his hands. He wonders about the purpose of this visit and what in the file was for him. David glances between the other two and lowers the newspaper before placing it on the table. He quickly picks up his things as Jim jerks his thumb towards the door and David lifts a hand with a short wave before leaving the other two to their business. John tilts his head in departure before using the plastic cover as a bookmark and putting the book on the table. John tilts his head, crosses his legs and interlaces his fingers.

Jim watches the door close before turning back to John and lifting the file folder in his hand. John stands to take it.

"Here you go!" Jim exclaims with glee as he tosses the folder towards John. John catches it, his confusion clearly written across his face. He doesn't look away from Jim to look at it. Instead he tilts his wrist to raise the file.

"What is this?" He questions. It could be anything, it was relatively big for the patients and Jim hadn't given him anything on those before. He also never told him more than who to send where for the missions, and those meetings were never in public rooms, always in Jim's.

"Everything your friend Mycroft needs to stop the bomb." Jim walks closer and John immediately breaks eye contact and opens the files. He looks at all the faces and tries to commit them to memory; there was no telling how long Jim would let him look.

"No need to memorize them." Jim sounds amused and John looks back up. Jim rocks his head back and forth as he pulls his lips back in what could be a smile with raised eyebrows "You're going to go deliver it to him." Jim nods with his words as if that made them true. "He'll be back at the palace in," Jim lifts his arm to look at his bare wrist, "47 minutes." John furrows his eyebrows and looks as if he's about to say something but pauses.

"A promise is a promise," Jim turns away from him and walks towards the one window in the study. He cups one hand in the other behind his back as he looks out of it. "Now, it's not as fun as a promise of pain but…" Jim trails off and shrugs before turning back to John and smiling.

"So, I-I'm free?" John was always good at showing his hand.

Free? Jim lets the word echo in his eardrum and fights the urge to scream at John. Never. They crossed his path, tried to get in his way. They would never be free. He would always be tugging on their strings as a master puppeteer. He gave them a chance to walk away and they didn't take it. _Friendly warning, my dear. _Their only freedom would come in their death. A slow and painful death? Maybe Seb would make quick work of them? Jim tilts his head in thought, he could plan their demise later, maybe he can get Irene to come and play with the Virgin while he takes apart the Soldier.

"Ask me again when you get back." Jim finally responds and listens as John turns on his heel to face the door and starts walking over to his room. Jim follows then leads. "Have one of the men take you." He instructs and is sure John is nodding behind him.

"Who?" He loves that John doesn't fight him anymore; he was right in that it would not need more than a month to acclimatize John to him; to listen to him the way he listened to Sherlock. It was like a dog taking to a new master. The next step had Sherlock burning John. Then-Jim lets a wide grin take his face as they enter John's room.

"Whoever is best, they are _your_ men, Dr. Watson." Jim doesn't look at him to judge his reaction but he knows it contains wide eyes and a confused expression before John shakes his head and decides to go with it. He listens as John pulls his coat on and walks out the door before bouncing on his feet and leaving himself.

It would be David then.

…

"What did he want?" David asks without turning away from the sink. John leans on the door, file in one hand and his head in the other. David rinses his teacup without a response from John. "Right. Secret." David opens the dishwasher and places the cup on the top shelf before closing it and turning to John. "So, what do you need me for?"

"I need you to drive me somewhere." John holds up a pair of car keys and David nods glancing at the folder but not asking. John wouldn't tell him anyway, but he would always be curious. John and Big M had an interesting relationship to say the least. The walk over to the parking lot is silent, and David can't help but be worried. John is always talkative. David tries three times to start a conversation, but John is not in much of a talking mood anymore.

"Talk to me John." David starts as he unlocks the car. John gets in the back seat.

"No. And I need you to be bloody quiet 'cause I've got a lot on my mind," David glances in the rearview mirror before pursing his lip and nodding. John is one of the best people he had ever met, so whatever was going on needs John's full attention. David pulls the car out as John sighs and looks out the window.

Jim was trying to give him some sort of messages, and John only knows that much. The only thing John could come up with was that Jim wasn't going to let him go. John had known it was a possibility from the start, but he hadn't expected it. He tells David to stop as soon as they get as close and gives him instructions on where to wait to pick him up. The sooner this is over the better as far as John is concerned. He hasn't had to see Mycroft since that first time and he doesn't want to know what the man thinks of him now.

He straightens out his suit jacket as soon as both feet are on the sidewalk and buttons the last button on it. He grabs the folder tightly before looking up to the palace and letting out a deep breath. Here he is, sneaking in again. He knows Jim wants it that way so he walks around the back to the place he was shown last time. Best to do it all exactly how Jim wants it, especially being so close to having it over. There is no point in angering him now. When John finally makes it and sits in the chair in the dark he lets out a sigh and tries to calm himself and prepare for the upcoming meeting. John hears the doorknob rattle and spreads his legs and sits up.

"Mycroft." John greets as the door opens. He listens to the other man stumble before turning on the light in the room he assumed was empty. It makes John want to giggle, but Jim could be watching. John is sitting in a chair in front of a table, fingers touching each other as he reclines in a relaxed and intimidating position. Mycroft quickly scans the room before walking over towards him.

"John!" He sounds both pleased and worried. "What are you doing here? Did you escape-" John doesn't say a word, simply tilts his head to get Mycroft to stop talking. It works. John is surprised but not very.

Mycroft notes the similarities to Moriarty instantly, and in ways he knew John didn't even know yet. Moriarty's using John even more than they all thought. He's shaping John to be something that Mycroft dreaded and would destroy Sherlock. Couldn't John see that and stop it? Mycroft takes in the suit and the perfect tailoring. There is a manila folder on the table that was considerably thick and is obviously the reason for the visit. Mycroft uses his umbrella as a walking stick as he walks towards John.

"What is this visit for?" And the friendliness is gone, because this isn't John, this is Moriarty's messenger.

"There is a plane that is leaving London in seven hours. Her majesty will be on it." Mycroft pales as he draws his head back; that is secret information and John doles it out like it had been on the headlines. "There will also be seven men you hadn't planned for and a bomb."

John's voice is calm, too calm; too cold. What had Moriarty done in that month since they last saw John? Sherlock already hated Mycroft for letting Moriarty hold John, but now…

"How can-" Mycroft is again cut off by John raising his hand; he then points to the folder on the table.

"As per the arrangement," the nasty arrangement that caused all of this, "there are all the files necessary to stop the attack." Mycroft snatches the folder up but waits to look at the contents.

"Is that it then, are you done?" John doesn't answer at first. He wonders briefly what would be okay to say, nothing to give anything away, and nothing he didn't know. As Jim implied, he had plenty more threats so don't mess up.

"I'm going back now." He settles on as he stands. Mycroft stares at him and draws his head back to stand at his full height. His lips settle into flat lines at his observations as John turns around and walks away.

…

"I seriously believe we need to keep an eye on her." Donavan stresses as she crosses her arms.

"She's a fan." Lestrade stresses again, shaking his head "I'm sure he'll drive her away soon enough."

"No." Sally is firm. She knows there is danger there. "She's a fanatic, and this is going to end in something drastic if we don't."

And Sally is right, for at the very moment he is insulting her and telling her to get lost. He's already deleted her, and she's determined to do anything to make him remember her and love her.

…

John had snuck in, he had been perfect. Moriarty is positively giddy. This is unexpected, and it takes quite a bit to surprise Jim, but it is not an unpleasant discovery. He takes out John's phone and tosses it in his hands a few times before tapping it against one hand.

10 seconds later he sends two text messages and a picture.

…

"You think it's his husband. Just back from the war, to his _true_ love, and the first things he does is try to kill her?" Much like John knocked him out, right? "Let's review here," because _normal_ people don't act like that. Sherlock uses his arms to hold his body up as he hops into the sofa chair, his ribs protest softly, but he pushes through that. John wouldn't have liked that. Lestrade shakes his head with annoyance but turns to listen to him. "There are no signs of forced entry. That means she either let the attacker in or he had a key. Sounds like someone she was intimate with. Based on her state, they were intimate today, may even get a semen sample if they didn't use protection or a used condom in the bedroom." Sherlock fiddles with a ruler that he picks up from the table next to the sofa. "Now the toilet seat in the bathroom of this apartment is up so unless you want to tell me something about her that you haven't we know there was a man here recently." Lestrade's look shifts and Sherlock just knows he's going to bring up the husband being the killer or an intruder. Sherlock let out a huff.

"I doubt the killer would stop to use the bathroom, Lestrade." Sherlock lets his fingers touch each other under his chin. "So the _phantom,_" and the word is said with mockery "stopped by." He looks up to the detective. "There were two wine glasses missing from the set of six over the sink. She shared a drink with him before they left to see a movie." He glances at the floor, "around 5:30."

Sherlock closes his eyes.

"They get back around 9, and she tells him her husband is coming back." A tilt of the head. "Her lover doesn't like that and so he grabs the nearest thing," Sherlock points to the bookcase "her missing MVP basketball trophy, and bludgeons her with it." Lestrade begins to shake his head. "He took the glasses which had his fingerprints on them and made a hasty retreat."

"10. Husband comes home." He walks to the door. "Drops bag here as he opens door. Freezes at the sight and turns swiftly on his heel to call the police. He wanted to hold her, but he's smart man. He didn't interfere with the crime scene and it's going to save him jail time." Sherlock turns to a wide eyed Greg. "Find her lover, a 200 pound athlete by the state of her sink, and you have your killer." He gets up and walks away then, taking out his phone as it vibrates.

_I've missed you – JW_

_Sent you something – JW_

There is a picture attached, and Sherlock is sure he doesn't want to open it.


	3. XXX

**TheDarkestShinobi: **So this is the first of the 30! Enjoy

**Start**

The simple note on his bed told him to report to a room down the hall and then the note there sent him to a large open space on the top floor. There are 30 people in the room that are blindfolded, gagged and tied up. Jim is sitting on a chair, drinking tea and eating a biscuit when John walks in, as if the people were common. John ignores the people in blindfolds after a quick glance tells him that none of them are injured.

"What's this then?" Jim opens his hand and turns it over to motion the food.

"Lunch," he answers as he pours John another cup up tea. John glances back at the others and sets his shoulders before eating.

"You're not letting me go." He announces as soon as he's 100% sure.

"I may." Jim responds as he shrugs. "I'm giving you a choice." He is, not a fair one, but it would be boring if he played fair. This way, when anyone asked, John could say he chose to stay and Sherlock would be able to tell that he is not lying.

"What are they for?" John has made the leap, it was simple. He turns to take them in again and Jim almost winces at how John couldn't ignore them, he had gotten better, but maybe he did need more than a month, less boring then.

"Well, that depends on your answer." John goes to rub his forehead and Jim slaps his hand. John leans back in his seat.

"Control your emotions, John; you will keep a calm exterior even with me." John didn't need to hear threats to comply and he nods once and curtly.

The first two times John hadn't been immediately obedient, he watched as an innocent suffered for it; a prisoner getting an extra beating and a murder being extra vicious. The third time John had pleaded to keep the other safe. He almost fell to his knees but the trigger had been pulled. There was no forth time.

"The question." John demands as Jim sips his tea. Jim looks down at the cup before back up and is happy to note John's face would look blank to most.

"My, my, John-"

"The question." John interrupts firmly. There was no hint of anger in his voice. Jim tilts his head and tries to imagine John on the battlefield. Jim hopes John will lead his men the same way.

"Follow me." He does. Jim leads him to the other room and John fights the urge to cross his arms; he doesn't know if he's allowed but he won't chance it.

"Are you staying to continue to work for me?" John tilts his head to the side thinking.

"What are those 30 people for?" he asks instead and Jim nods.

"Depends on your answer." John knows; he just knows that something bad would happen if he said no. He needs to say yes. He fights the urge to clench his fist or bite his lips and sigh. He looks around the room as he counts to 10.

"If I say no," Jim grimaces and John doesn't need to ask further. "If I say yes," he tries again and Jim shrugs.

"It's less boring," he answers and John is thankful for his military training as his body remains still. He can easily imagine the damage he can inflict on the criminal with his fists. It is not so easy to refrain from causing that damage.

"I really don't have a choice then." He almost sighs, almost. Damn this was hard. Jim holds out his hands in a placating manner.

"You can walk out the door now and I will leave Sherlock and you alone." John swallows. "But if you say yes, you will not deny me anything."

"If I said yes," John's finger taps his leg, "how long am I saying yes to?" Jim does not say anything, and John replays the conversation in his head. Jim lets the pieces fall together in John's mind and watches John come to a realization.

"Oh," he lets out almost a full minute later. He sits in the nearest chair and says it again. Jim watches; hands clasped behind his back. John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Jim lets a side of his mouth quirk up briefly.

"Are you staying to continue to work for me?" He asks again

"Yes." John doesn't hesitate in his answer. He is sentencing himself for who knows how long and to do what god only knows. John leans forward and laces his fingers together.

"You're time with me is done technically," Jim continues, "the bombing has been stopped, Mycroft has been informed. I will carry out no threat against the British Nation for you."

"Yes." He repeats his answer firmly with a nod. His life for 30 others, he is already dead to Sherlock likely. Mycroft looked at him with revulsion last time.

"You will not hesitate to do anything I tell you to. Your time is voluntary." He would have to kill, to maim and to hurt.

"Yes."

He'd do it for 31 people.

…

Sherlock walks outside to get better service, still it takes a few seconds for the picture to load and when it does it pops up on the screen. Lestrade notices that Sherlock has stopped leaving and walks over.

He glances over his shoulder to see that the picture is of John. Sherlock is not sure what to make of it at first. He is smiling and laughing and someone else had taken the picture. John is in jeans and a red T-shirt leaning forward in his chair. Domestic bliss; John is comfortable. He's got a piece of something in his hand. It clicks.

A game piece. From Life.

Sherlock lets out a long breath and puts the phone in his pocket. Lestrade asks him what that was.

"Moriarty played a game last year, using people as bait to get us to solve murders."

"Yeah, so?" Lestrade uses his hands to pull back his coat as they settled on his hips. Sherlock looks away.

"It's John's turn."

"Ah, Christ." Lestrade runs his hand through the fuzz on his head. "Has it started?" He spins around, checking their surroundings. Sherlock stands impossibly still before shaking his head. "When do you think it will start?"

"No telling." Sherlock watches a bird land on the rooftop of an adjacent building, "but it will be soon."

Exactly 12 hours later, on another case, Sherlock receives another picture from John. It is of John's chair. Sherlock knows he needs to head there immediately and drops the arm he had been inspecting.

"Sherlock?" He doesn't respond, looking to see if the picture can tell him anything. Lestrade walks over to him. "It's happening now, isn't it?" He asks as Sherlock stands.

"Yes, I have to go." Lestrade reaches for his cell as he motions for Sherlock to follow him. Normally, Sherlock would tell the DI that driving and talking on the phone was against the law, but he just looks out the window as Lestrade tells Dimmock to move his rear. John was behind this, that's what the first picture meant. The second picture is another jab.

_Hurry up -JW_

John hits send before turning back to the woman, #1.

"Sherlock's smart," he tries to comforts her as he fastens the straps. She's got enough explosives around her midsection to take out the whole building. John hopes it doesn't come to that. "He should solve this soon enough and then you can go back home."

She wants to ask him why he's doing this, he doesn't seem to be like the others, but the fact that he could strap her into a bomb so easily stills her tongue. He sighs before he gets up and wipes his hands on his jeans. She takes him in, the muscles, the scars, his face. If she survived she'd bring at least one person down. It would have to be him.

_Earlier_

"My phone?" John questions even though he already knows the answer. He uses his pointer to tap the back of it from where it stopped after Jim's initial push.

"I played a game with Sherlock, five rounds." Jim starts to explain.

"I remember; you strapped me to a bomb." John inputs curtly and Jim smiles as if he had forgotten.

"It is your turn to play." He continues; John picks up his phone and uses it to tap the table. "There are thirty people in that room, and you are going to give Sherlock clues to get him to solve 30 murders. The files are on your bed and each one is numbered."

"I don't think like you." John replies, although it isn't in a defensive tone.

"Learn to." Jim instructs. "You have 30 days to get him to solve all 30, each time he does, you can give him a present." John nods very slowly. "You give him a time limit for each one and at the end of 30 days I will kill the ones he didn't get." John looks away. He can't do this. He doesn't know how to give clues, he could barely follow them.

Jim gets up and John stands as well. They walk out of the room side by side and John barely resists the urge to look over at the others and check them over more thoroughly.

…

Harry Wiles and Clara Osborn.

John taps his phone against the table to think.

He had no clue how to get Sherlock to figure out the intertwining bodies.

Think. Think. His time was already running out. Sherlock had to have information to solve. He hit the phone on the table again and it slipped out of his hands. He reached over and held it, turning it over to make sure he didn't damage it.

Oh.

_Oh_

_Present_

Sherlock is out of the car the second it stops moving. He's flying up the stairs as Lestrade opens the front door. Lestrade starts up the step and looks up to see Sherlock's back. Sherlock seems to be frozen and for a second Lestrade is sure that John Watson is in the flat because Sherlock has stopped breathing. Lestrade shifts and peers around Sherlock to see the flat. It looks as it always, no mess, no John, no clue. Lestrade shifts back and waits.

"John was here." Sherlock announces after another moment and Lestrade places a hand on Sherlock's back for comfort. Lestrade feels Sherlock lean into it for the briefest amount of time before he is moving again. Sherlock takes slow cautious steps, and gently reaches out to touch the wall.

John let the door swing shut as he took a deep breath. He lifted his hand and placed it on the wall as he looked around his old flat. Sherlock hadn't changed much since kicking him out. John took a deep breath. He hadn't expected to be back here so soon or at all if he was honest with himself. John shook his head and placed a hand on the table to lean over and grab a pen.

Lestrade watches Sherlock place his right hand on the table before reaching over. He furrows his eyebrows but keeps his mouth shut. He knows how others thoughts and sounds distract and irritate the other. The only one who had free reign to interrupt was now on the other side, the other side of what Lestrade didn't know. Sherlock grabs at empty air he didn't need to lean to reach before pulling back. Sherlock turns in a perfect 180 degrees and Lestrade's mouth opens to ask why before he shuts it. Sherlock is tracing John's actions.

John turned and walked towards the skull. He wanted to tell Sherlock that all of it was fake. He wondered about Sherlock's different reactions to that. He could be furious with John for following his brother's plan and Moriarty. He could be grateful that John hasn't truly betrayed him, that this wasn't voluntary. John turned the skull to the side to look at John's usual spot. He could decide to test John, to see if John would really kill the others, then John would have to. John sat in his chair. No. He couldn't tell Sherlock yet.

Sherlock looks at the dust, always a giveaway. The skull is facing a different direction than he left it. Lestrade crosses his arms and leans against the wall, watching. Mycroft coming to him meant one of two things. John was dead and is driving Sherlock crazy, or John is alive and is doing worse. Lestrade is no fool; he knows that Mycroft knows about criminals like Moriarty. It was hard to leave them out there but who would testify? Who would prosecute? If John is alive Mycroft knows about it and wants it to be left alone. If John is truly dead than Moriarty is playing another sick game, one that Sherlock may not walk away from.

It's the chair, John's being redundant. Sherlock debates sitting in it but he can't bring himself to. Its John's chair. Sherlock has never sat in that chair. Sherlock's eyes find the paper so he snatches it up before sitting on the couch.

XXX

John nodded, already having decided that clue would be enough to get Sherlock to figure out what case he had to solve. Jim had given him 12 hours for the tougher cases, so 16 should be plenty of time. He could only hope. John left the paper on the armrest and bolted. Sherlock would be here any moment now. He ran across the street and waited. He should have left, but he wanted to see him again. He hid in the shadows and further in his hoodie and watched as Lestrade pulled up and they both raced inside. With a few nods he turns and walks away, his hand playing with his mobile. He'd have to call soon.

"He was here recently, left just before we got here." Sherlock starts as he stares at the three Xs on the paper as Lestrade walks over to the couch.

"And he left that?" Lestrade points to the paper and Sherlock gives one curt nod. The missing insult of obvious hangs in the air and Lestrade blinks twice at its absence before looking away.

Sherlock tilts his head.

It could be a romantic attachment, three kisses. He would have text that. Three Xs, roman number 30. Less likely.

XXX

The message isn't as important as the means in this case. He had to come back to the apartment, its more effort that a text, he could have been caught. It couldn't have been a text then. There was a reason! It had to be physical, stir a visual memory. He scanned his thoughts.

"_Now Clara, who's Clara, three kisses says it's a romantic attachment."_

"Harry," Sherlock thought aloud and Lestrade shifts his weight as his hands found his hips. "From Clara," he doesn't move his grip on the paper but looks at it differently.

"_Expense of the phone says wife not girlfriend."_

"Harry and Clara?" Lestrade interrupts Sherlock's thoughts. "What?" He shifts about again. "Are you talkin' about the twins from the cold case?"

"No." Sherlock admits, "but John is."

"Can we assume there's a-"

Sherlock never talks if he can text, so it surprises the both of them to hear his ringtone. He fishes it out of his coat pocket with his right hand and lets out a breath before answering. He doesn't have to check who it is, and the voice on the other end confirms his suspicions.

"Have you figured it out yet?" John's voice sounds eager over the phone.

"The twin murders." Sherlock answers as Lestrade mouths the word 'who' and then 'John' while stroking his chin.

"Good." John sounds oddly relieved. "You have 16 hours." John's voice is serious now. Sherlock feels his face contort in anger.

"Not going to hide behind your victim's voice?" He snarls into the phone.

"I probably care about them more than you do," John says dismissively but Sherlock doesn't need reminders of how much he cares, especially not from John. "You'll hear from her if you save her."

"So, it's a her." Sherlock doesn't need to repeat the information, but he wants to rub it in that John made a mistake in giving away a gender.

"This time." John hangs up and Sherlock lowers the phone, hurt written across his face. How could John… ? This was the pool all over again, except there is no gun or bomb pointed at John. John chose this. His hand feels unsteady, so he puts the paper down and rests it on his leg.

Unacceptable.

"Well," Lestrade prompts after Sherlock places his phone back in his pocket.

"We have sixteen hours to solve Harry and Clara's murder or a bomb will be detonated." Sherlock sounds shocked and mildly horrified, he sounds lost and confused and Lestrade knows it's not the situation.

"John?" he questions and he's not sure what he wants the answer to be. Sherlock nods instead of speaking and Lestrade scratches his forehead. "The files are on my desk, should we head back?" Sherlock nods before standing and walking to the door and Lestrade wonders how a DI would be charged with murder.

…

David knows John Watson isn't like the others. Everyone who works for the Big M has something they want in return, records cleared or medical bills for a family member or a murder hushed up. For David, his brother got into some massive debt and killed the guy he owed. David is working to get him out, after that though, David thinks he's going to stay. They all have something they are willing to die for keeping them here. Big M doesn't threaten them because better work comes from love, a vicious motivator or something like that. John doesn't want anything. Big M doesn't seek them out like he does to John.

Also, Big M wasn't someone you met your first day on the job. David had to wait 2 years before he even saw the man's shadow and most people never met him. David himself was one of the many faces of the organization. No one had known John before John was around. He just showed up one day with an instant connection to the big guy upstairs. John didn't report to anybody other than Mr. Moriarty from the start.

There are rumors that Dr. Watson is Big M's squeeze, for lack of a better word. John always seems to be there, so he may live there, and Big M is always with him. While everyone calls big M Mr. Moriarty, John calls him Jim. John doesn't bow down to Jim like the rest of them. Mr. Moriarty buys John clothes. It's rather obvious to David but he wants to ask and he doesn't know how.

John is looking out the window with guilt plastered on his face. David knows Mr. Moriarty didn't send John to that guy's house, and John didn't seem to want anyone else to know either. David taps the steering wheel and wonders if John is cheating on Big M, and what insane revenge Big M is capable of.

…

"_This is all you have?" Lestrade nods as he turns back to Sherlock, who is reading the information in the files._

"_This was before I was here, so I don't even have anything to help you with." Sherlock waves his hand_

"_Memories are unreliable," Sherlock frowns as he looks back to the folder. "I could do so much better given the crime scene"_

John is watching the live feed with Jim and frowns. He thought Sherlock would have more information. Did he give him too little time?

"These words exactly, John." Jim starts and John looks up from the feed to the other.

"You want me to text him?" Jim doesn't answer and John takes it as a yes.

"I can give you a new crime scene and not an imitation." Jim nods and John sends it, adding a JW to the end as a signature. A few seconds later Sherlock, as seen through the footage, reaches into his coat pocket. Jim pulls up his arm and glances at his bare wrist.

"It should be done now." He says to himself before squeezing John's shoulder. "Now send him this address." Jim shoots off an address and John sends it over.

"_John has sent us a new crime scene," Sherlock spins the phone in his hand. "Not an imitation."_

"_Where?" Resignation coats the DI's words. Sherlock's phone chirps in response and he turns it towards Lestrade. _

"_That's close, let's go." Lestrade grabs his coat. "DONAVAN!" He shouts as he leaves the office. Sherlock pauses a second before looking directly into the camera Jim planted. He looks as if he's about to speak but just shakes his head and walks out._

"Good." Jim praises as he leans back in his chair. John reaches over to his bag behind him, one he took from Jim, and pulls out a folder. "Figuring out #2?" Jim asks as he shifts closer, even though he knows the answer. John doesn't answer and starts skimming the document again. "Need help?" he asks in a tone that John would peg as teasing. John doesn't want to admit it, so he won't for now.

Jim simply pulls out a file of his own before sneering and making a phone call, threatening to start a war before the other could even get back into his country.

_Try not to start a war before I get home Mycroft, you know what it does to the traffic._

John smiles and shakes his head at the memory before Jim hangs up the phone and sits down next to him. John's pencil taps the folder before Jim leans over and points to the date on top as if helping him cheat on a primary school test. That thought made John stifle snickers before he reigns himself in and checks the date.

"That's tomorrow." Jim looks away and shifts, resting his back against John's side as he starts texting and John sees a contact listed as The Vixen before the screen goes black. Jim pulls up another conversation with a contact called The Coward. Much like the name would suggest the message was one begging for forgiveness and not to hurt him. Jim shakes his head; the motion feeling odd against John's shoulder. It reminds him of an animal.

"Now, now, _I_ won't hurt you." Jim smirks and John's eyebrow shoots up. "Never liked guns," he says in explanation to John. "But someone else will." He looks up as John looks down and John swears the consulting criminal is now 5 years old. He changes so quickly John has to wonder if he's got a disorder. "Do you think I need new shoes, a purse or some paper?"

"Shoes?" There is a smile on his face as he responds, even though he tries hard not to give in to it.

"Mmm." Another conversation is pulled up, to a contact called Moran, and Jim sends a text saying 'Coward; shoes' and John's smile disappears.

_I will turn you into shoes._

"Did I just…" the question dies on his lips and Jim doesn't answer. John takes it as a yes and he feels the need to throw up. He stands quickly and Jim falls back until his head hits the armrest, texting away as if it didn't matter. John starts walking out when Jim's voice stops him.

"You've killed people." John refuses to look back. He refuses to move.

"Yes," John answers back, but the situation was different. He was a soldier.

"You've killed people more innocent than he. He ordered the massacre of 500 people." Jim speaks and John's fingers alternate touching his palm. "I told him not to, but he thinks that they can honestly cause an uprising in his country." Jim shrugs and grimaces. "Idiot." The last part is said hatefully. John turns to Jim.

_It doesn't make it better, it doesn't._

"In fact." His voice is high and excited. "This massacre is going to cause the other villages to unite and overthrow the rest of his dictatorship."

"And you're helping?" The disbelief is evident in his tone.

"My interests just happen to be the same this time." He crosses his legs at the ankle. "Just like my interest is getting those 30 people back."

"Why?" John is walking back towards Jim, who has put his phone down. He just shakes his head with a smile that is sin. He then sits up and swing his legs around so that he was sitting properly on the couch. Interesting.

"Now, do you want help?"

…

The twins were both 34 years old, much older than the 21 year olds in the first case. Both naked and positioned in a way that made them look like fetus intertwined in the womb. Sherlock walks around the bodies as Donavan calls it in and lowers himself to the ground pulling out a magnifying glass.

"Too easy." Sherlock announces as he uses a pair of tweezers to grab a single blonde hair. He places it in a bag before giving it to Lestrade and walking around the bodies again. The elder twin was married, almost 10 years, happily. The younger was single, or not in a serious relationship at the time due to the tired clubbers eyes and the makeup caked to her face, and the wrinkles on her heel. The tan line on her finger is almost completely faded, so recently divorced or widowed, likely divorced given recent habits of hers.

Both of them were strangled with a cord, the same cord now used to tie them together. Sherlock tilted his head. The divorcee was a teacher and the other a therapist. He trailed his eyes up the therapist's dark skin and landed on her lips. They were taped shut. That's new. He smiles. That's personal. They have their mistake.

He left when the others arrived, his work was done for now. There were 15 hours left, they would have results soon enough.

…

"Who does the blonde hair belong to?" John asks as Jim walks into his room. John accepts the takeaway bag and starts pulling out his food.

"Not the murderess."

"A woman?" John's tone could not be more surprised and Jim laughs.

"Men don't have a monopoly on murder. Women are _quite_ creative and usually much more accepting of help. Much more fun." John shakes his head as Jim's phone buzzes. He pulls a face and ignores it. John shoves a forkful of chicken and rice into his mouth and Jim does the same with his own. Jim's phone buzzes again and he pulls it out to glance at it.

"Mr. Moriarty, I have heard of your elusive services and am in need of help." He reads out mockingly, and then "It's urgent." Jim makes a face and John does not want to talk about any death or murder or shoes while he's eating so he takes the phone right out of Jim's hand and puts it in his pocket.

"Eating is urgent." He points at Jim's food with his fork and continues to eat; Jim laughs at the absurdity of it and then nods before picking his fork back up. Jim knows this is going to be a slow process, but it's interesting, and it's moving along quite nicely.

…

Mycroft pulls out his phone to read his new text, which is simply 'open the door' from an unknown number. He frowns before shaking his head and replacing the phone. He walks over to the door and opens it to see no one, and then, out of sheer curiosity, he walks to the main entrance and opens that.

"Mycroft." Lestrade says in greeting and Mycroft is confused but opens the door further.

"Detective Inspector." Lestrade takes two steps in and notices all of the others sitting in the room, so he lets Mycroft lead him to an office. "We can talk in here," he starts, but he never gets to finish because, for the second time in a week, he is floored by a punch to the face.

"Before I have you thrown in prison." Mycroft begins as he stands, and Lestrade is barely in control of himself, the twitching of his hand making that evident. "I'll give you one minute to explain why you thought this your best course of action." Mycroft's hand is rubbing his jaw but other than that, he remains unaffected, outwardly. Lestrade lets out a deep breath.

"John is sending Sherlock to solve murders and is threatening to blow people up if Sherlock fails or is too slow." Lestrade crosses his arms and Mycroft lowers his. "It's got Moriarty written all over it. Now, if John is with Moriarty, you have to know." Mycroft begins to speak but Lestrade hold up a hand and shoots Mycroft a dirty look. "Don't, just don't. I'm not stupid; I know how the world works." Mycroft lets a small political smile grace his face.

"So why are you here?"

"You let John go to Moriarty." Mycroft shakes his head and Lestrade's fingers thrum against his bicep.

"No, I made him." Lestrade's fingers tighten on his biceps. Then they fall to his sides as he shakes his head.

"WHAT?" He starts moving towards Mycroft.

"I made John serve under Moriarty for a short while; it was part of a bargain." Mycroft spoke slowly. "Apparently, at the end of the bargain, John chose to stay."

"I want to punch you again." Lestrade confesses, inches away.

"I can assure you that _will_ end with you in prison." Mycroft has a neutral expression on his face but he still takes a step back.

"John wouldn't just jump ship like that. He was a soldier for Christ's sake, he's all about Queen and country."

"I don't know." Mycroft admits as he watches Lestrade for an outburst. "But we know Moriarty has made no threat against us since then, and watching John proves troubling." He pauses, "as far as we can tell, John is a willing participant in all of this." There is silence. Lestrade shakes his head before falling into Mycroft's chair.

"What do I do?" Lestrade looks up and Mycroft looks away.

"Take care of Sherlock. If you can, goad John out into the open." Lestrade nods and then shifts, realizing how comfortable the chair is.

"And what are you going to do to John?"

"Whatever it takes."

…

He's looking for John.

Sherlock needs answers because he can't figure out how John could so drastically change. He has Angelo looking for John. The homeless network is scouting as well. Currently, he's waiting for the message from Lestrade calling him back to the Yard. He laces his fingers together as he closes his eyes.

Love is the most vicious motivator. This could be to take revenge for Sherlock's rejection but that would not be the whole story, nor an explanation of all of the facts. The image of John and Moriarty's lips pressed together cause him to open his eyes and shake his head. Could Moriarty have offered John what Sherlock denied him? Even then, he doubts John could have been hurting enough to accept it. He cracks his neck and thrums his fingers on the table.

His best friend, his partner, was now working with his archenemy. Moriarty had threatened to burn him and Sherlock had given him the perfect weapon. He swallows remembering the conversation, if one could call it that that he had with Mycroft. Even now, it causes hot anger to run through his veins. Moriarty was right, he was burning. He still has the urge to punch his brother over and over again for allowing that to happen. He takes a deep breath as he watches a cab pass by.

It hadn't been _that _long ago that he and John chased a cab from this very spot. John had left his cane that day. Now Sherlock was the one being left behind. He aches inside as he looks to where John would sit. Sherlock watches a woman come in and spot him. He watches as she makes her way over him with a wave. She seems familiar with him but he cannot remember her. She must be deleted information. He says nothing as she slides into the seat across from him with a smile.

"Sherlock." The greeting is laced with affection, which is odd, because he makes it a point to remember the ones that are affectionate to him, even if he would be better served deleting some of them.

"I'm busy, go away." He dismisses as he pulls out his phone to look busy, so the texts from Lestrade pop right up.

We've identified one of the twins. –L

She used to be John's therapist. –L

We have an ID on the hair –L

Come down -L

Angelo comes over to them again, with a candle, and Sherlock stands.

"She is not my date. Keep an eye out for John." Susan looks crushed as she continues sitting.

"Another serial killer?" She asks softly and Sherlock turns to her looking her up and down. She explains. "A text that gets you moving that quickly; can't be from your partner, as he's now on the other side." She continues and for a brief second Sherlock thinks she may have observed that, but she didn't. It's disappointing. He shifts before turning. Her voice gives him pause.

"Nothing more interesting than a good serial killer?"

"Nothing." He lies as he leaves her there at Angelo's. There was nothing more interesting that he could have.

The hair belongs to Harry, so Sherlock tries finding a connection between the two. What he finds out is that Harry was an exceptional woman. She skipped both the third and seventh grade, unlike her twin who was left back in the ninth grade. She won a scholarship in high school to study abroad and finished her undergraduate degree in two ½ years. During the time of her death she was finishing up med school and starting residency.

The link he was looking for became clear. Harry delivered Lucy's baby ten years ago. Now, Sherlock knows the way Moriarty plays, and the way this will go, so he knows the killer was after Harry. In Harry's life, there was only one person who could have possibly had a motive. Karla Martins came into the surgery needing an emergency c section. Harry was on the prep team and the only one Kayla would have seen and remember. Therefore Harry is the one Karla would blame for her miscarriage.

…

"That's my therapist." John shakes the picture in Jim's face before Jim bats it away.

"It is." He confirms as he nods.

"The blonde hair?" John decides to try his luck.

"Belongs to Harry." Jim answers with a one shouldered shrug. "Not your sister of course."

"Right." He nods once and turns to go.

"Have you decided on your second, yet?" Jim asks as John pulls the door open.

"I have, I'm going to send him a picture of the bridge."

"Lead him straight to the body." Jim approves and John keeps walking, he has to get to the bridge today so he can send him the picture later.

There is no body yet, which can be expected, so John snaps a picture of the bridge hoping it's recognizable to Sherlock and another just in case. The black car parked has started again and John scans the area before running up to it.

"Mr. Moriarty sending you on a scavenger hunt?" John looked to David, realizing how odd the name Moriarty sounded. When did that happen? He nods as they pull away.

"I suppose that's as close as you can get to labeling it."

"Where to now? Home?"

Home.

Yes, that would be lovely, walking in to a head in the fridge or Mrs. Hudson's biscuits. He sighs as he looks out the passenger's side window, knowing he didn't have to keep a perfectly straight face with David. "Just back." He replies and wonders what Sherlock is up to. He lifts his vibrating phone.

_The hair was a giveaway. –SH_

_The murder for both cases is a woman called Kayla Martins. -SH_

John shakes his head with a smile.

_And why would Kayla kill her doctor? -JW_

_For miscarrying her twins -SH_

Sherlock really is amazing. He taps the dashboard before texting the woman with the bomb. It only took Sherlock eight hours, but the body won't be under the bridge for another few hours, so John would give Sherlock a small break. This gives John more time to think about the folders with information in them and wonder about the future contents of the empty ones.

…

"Hello?" Sherlock answers the phone to hear crying. It is a woman's voice, somewhere in her twenties. Sherlock listens to a shuddering breath as the other calmed.

"He said you can come get me." She sobs and Sherlock hands the phone to Lestrade who takes care of it.

An hour later Sherlock sends one more text.

_Why your therapist? -SH_

It is one John doesn't answer.

…

The woman knows John's face and the sound of his voice. She describes his tan and his hair as well as his clothes and mannerism. 'He knows you' she said 'never doubted you would save me.' Lestrade wishes all of his victims could remember that much, especially when they didn't already know who the perp was.

"He didn't give you any message for me?" Sherlock can't fight the hope that swells in him, the irrational sentiment in his way. The belief that John was still on his side, still trapped and trying to get back to him was clawing at the gates of his mind palace desperate to get in and never leave. She shakes her head.

"He was real careful," She rubs her arms where there were straps. "It was like he didn't want to hurt me, despite strapping the bomb to me." Then she puts her head in her hands and sighs wiping her eyes. Sherlock turns away from her and closes his eyes. _This I why I kicked him out; the attachment is too much, it makes me weak._ He opens them again and shoves his hands in his pockets.

"Did he, at any point, seem like he was being forced into this?"

It's easier not to face her, so he didn't have to control the expressions on his face. She closes her eyes and thinks back. Remembering the way he ran his hands over the bomb like it was his purpose, the way he handled the situation with familiarity, the way he commanded the others. She lets out a breath as she recalls that he never looked back at her, he was hardened, trained.

"No." She shakes her head. "He seemed like he was made for it." Sherlock begins walking away without glancing back at her, and she turns to Lestrade to see him rubbing his forehead and shaking his head.

"Who is he?" She asks and she never really gets an answer.

The truth is Sherlock doesn't know anymore.

**TDS: **Remember, any and all suggestions for names, murders, clues and scenes are most welcome. Review!


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